The Plain of Scamander
by Reality's Runaway
Summary: Someone catches Artemisia's eye on the blood-soaked plains--the only man she finds a temptation.


The Plain of Scamander

The smell of the putrefying bodies hit Artemisia before she even made it outside the city walls. The Plain of Scamander was drenched in rotting corpses, frying in the heat, floating in a sea of dark dried blood. Flies had begun to lay their maggoty eggs in the soft wounds of the fallen soldiers and, already, there was a plentitude of buzzards ripping apart the bodies on the fringes of the battle field, flying away with eyes and succulent pieces of skin not protected by the thick, sweaty armor. In return for a few small coins, little boys waved their arms and chased away the buzzards and crows, careful to jump over bodies and limbs—a chilling juxtaposition of young life running to and fro across the hot plains and fresh death roasting in the midday sun.

Like every other battle for the past two years, neither the Trojans nor the Acheans could claim victory for the day. Both sides gained ground at various points and these vicissitudes seemed to continue for ages; but in the end, both Trojans and Acheans littered the ground in equal numbers. Only death had prevailed.

As she paused to examine a corpse, Artemisia felt a slight touch on the back of her arm. She turned around and looked down into the wide eyes of one of the buzzard boys, not more than eight or nine years old. He stepped back, as if startled himself, then managed to speak.

"Are you an Amazon?" he half-whispered.

"Yes," Artemisia replied, her shadow engulfing the small, scrawny boy.

"Did you fight today?" he asked, this time with a little more courage.

"No."

"Will you fight tomorrow?"

"If the Acheans return, yes."

He nodded and stepped back out of her shadow, preparing to return to his macabre task. "I'm glad you're on our side."

Artemisia smiled after the little boy, whose sickly legs looked no bigger than the width of her own sword.

"I am glad, too," she sighed to herself. "But the gods only know how much longer this city can last."



Artemisia did not have to be out there amongst the dead, sweating in the hot sun and enduring the strange looks and catcalls from some brave Acheans. It was by no means dangerous, though not particularly salubrious either, but she really could have been warming up with Maia or helping in the armory, rather than searching for a fallen soldier that was of close to no importance. But poor Medesicaste, one of King Priam's daughters, had secretly begged her to help find a certain man's body. Medesicaste was already engaged, but she told Artemisia that her husband-to-be, a rather old, fat man, was a complete boor. The young man she was looking for, who had apparently fallen on during battle, was her true love and her lover, unbeknownst to either family. Although stunned to be burdened with such a secret, Artemisia agreed to help look for his body and would drag him to a tree Medesicaste had specified if she found him. The only thing Artemisia had to distinguish him from the hundreds of other dead young men was a pendant bearing the image of Aphrodite, Medesicaste's chosen goddess, around his neck.

As she pondered why anyone would choose Aphrodite as their goddess over Artemis, a figure over her left shoulder caught her eye. She turned to look at the man, who was bending down over a large body lying on the ground. His ratty armor and dirty helmet concealed his identity, yet there was something recognizable that caused her heart to race and her face to grow warm with emotion. When a bit of his golden hair fell out of the helmet, Artemisia knew unequivocally who the man was—and it almost made her swoon.

_Achilles._

His name swam through her head. Her palms began to sweat and a balmy feeling came between her legs.

_Achilles._

It was a postulate that Amazons had no feelings for men, least of all their virgin queen. It was a postulate Artemisia herself had inculcated into the minds of her warriors over and over again, punishing those who did not adhere to it and rewarding those who did.

But Achilles was no ordinary man—a fact Artemisia knew full well.

Indeed, he was her counterpart; the male Artemisia, half-god, but seemingly invincible.

Feigning interest in a dead soldier before her, she glanced furtively in his direction. The sight of his tan skin and rippling muscles made her weak in the knees—a reaction she could only recall having one other time in her life—in both instances, caused by the same man.

Artemisia soon came to her senses and realized how odd was for the Acheans' greatest warrior to be attending to the dead, completely exposed and completely disengaged from the world around him. She supposed that was why he was dressed the way he was—his characteristic black armor would have given him away the minute he was spotted by the city's sentries. Plenty of young Trojans would not hesitate at the chance to kill the hated Achilles, even during an afternoon of sworn peace.

Judging by Hector's description of the battle, and by the size and armor of the body, she guessed the corpse he was attending to was Ajax of Salamis—a behemoth of a man Artemisia herself had once fought, while visiting his island many years ago. He was huge and therefore not exceptionally agile, making him ill-suited for one-on-one combat. Swinging his giant club and smashing anyone in the vicinity, Ajax's strength lay in the midst of a battle. Artemisia knew Achilles was a close friend of the giant, and she presumed that was why he was taking such great care to wrap his body.

She saw him hesitate to lift the man off the ground onto his horse—rather, someone else's horse. Achilles' steeds were as remarkable and recognizable as the warrior himself. Although she had no doubt Achilles could do it, Ajax weighed at least as much as three men, and any show of such great strength by one man would surely give him away, even when it seemed no one was watching. Suddenly, she was to her feet, walking towards the only man who had ever been a temptation. It was quite possible he would deny her assistance, but to her that mattered little.

_Will he remember me?_

Achilles seemed to be so deep in thought that he only noticed Artemisia's presence when she impinged on his sunlight. He glanced up, startled, and was almost to his feet with dagger in hand before she dropped to her knees over the dead Ajax.

Innocently she asked, "Can I help you load this man onto your horse?"

He returned to his squatting position on the ground. When his eyes opened wide and he did not answer, she knew he recognized her, or at least had an inclination as to her identity.

_Achilles._

His name continued to echo through her head, even more forcefully than before with him not more than two feet away.

Apparently trying to continue his ruse, he coughed and attempted a reply that was hardly discernable at best.

_He doesn't think I recognize him._

She did not know whether to reveal her name or indicate that she knew his. It was dangerous business for her, a committed ally to the Trojans, to be seen aiding an Achean—but she could not pass up the opportunity to speak with him, the one man who, although she was hesitant to admit it, had a piece of her heart. She looked down at the bloody face of Ajax, the mighty warrior who seemed invincible not hours before.

_Who knows if the great Achilles will be next?_

The putrid, blood-caked plains of Troy seemed as good a place as any to make her presence in Troy known to him—and she did not know when or if they would meet like this again.

"Achilles."

At the mention of his name so confidently uttered, he met her gaze, but said nothing.

"Do you know who I am?"

In the voice that could send her to the Elysian Fields and back, he replied, "An enemy of mine in this war."

She smiled. He was being stubborn, one of his many multifarious moods, if she remembered correctly.

"And who was I before this wretched war began?"

Silence for a brief moment.

"Why are you even here, Artemisia? What business do you have with the Trojans?"

His words were cool and distant, not even an ounce of affection could be detected through them. This was not the Achilles she remembered—this was a hardened warrior who knew only how to take life, not how to enjoy it.

"And what do you, mighty Achilles, have to do with the Greeks? Fighting for Agamemnon seems a bit beneath you—you who, if I recall correctly, swore you fought for no master, nor obeyed no king."

"That pig of a king does not command me. I am here on my own accord."

His eyes darted under his horse, checking for wandering eyes and ears. Then they returned to Artemisia's face. "You still have not answered my question."

Her attempts at a playful jest seemed to be futile. If he truly desired to be her enemy, she could easily concede to that.

"Primarily because that pig of a king offended my mother. Stupid man. Also because Priam has always been a friend to my people and he is currently in need. My reasons are a bit more noble than yours I believe."

"I knew Troy was desperate, but I would have never guessed they would have sent for a bunch of women. Perhaps this war will be over sooner than I thought."

Before she could even attempt a wily reply, Artemisia punched him hard in the jaw, carefully aiming so as to not bloody her knuckles on his helmet. He fell backwards, landing on his elbows. She looked around to see if anyone had noticed, but no one had. A seemingly infinite number of bodies still littered the plain, leaving plenty of work left to do.

Achilles straightened up, wiping the blood from his lip and moving his jaw in all directions checking for sharp pain.

"Damn, I didn't hit hard enough," she cursed.

"Your punch is a bit stronger than I remember it."

"Not bad for a mere woman," she agreed, admiring her fist in the sunlight.

He finally smiled, sending reminiscent chills up Artemisia's spine. Now that she had broken through his hard, warrior aura, she felt her anxiety attenuate.

"I am sorry," she said, acknowledging Ajax's already foul-smelling corpse.

Achilles nodded and shooed a fly off the big man's face. "He was a good man— very brave. Twice the man his king is."

"For your hatred of Agamemnon I am surprised you are even on his side, even if you are fighting purely for yourself," she began, relaxing down to the ground, "You have no allegiance but to your Myrmidons—why not fight for Troy? The gods know we could use you."

"Your side already has a hero—Hector. There is not enough room even in Troy for two of us."

"Not enough honor to go around?"

"You make me sound like the most conceited of men."

"That's because you are."

He threw a handful of dust in her face.

"You bastard!"

Artemisia lunged over Ajax to tackle her temporary foe. He tried to dodge her, but she landed with full force on top of him, accidentally kneeing him in the groin. He let out a groan and his winded breath warmed her already hot face. Despite his temporary handicap, he flipped her over and held her flailing arms down on the scathing sand, his knees wrapping on either side of her. She was laughing, but the closeness of his body, the smell of his sweat made her quickly catch her breath.

For a few moments, she was nearly incapacitated with emotion; but she remembered that they were not alone. Her eyes darted to either side of her, praying that no one was watching. Should anyone see a dirty, common Achean mounting an Amazon, she knew it would raise suspicion if she did not fight back. Anger rushed over her; indignation coursed through her veins that she should have to push this moment away, but she knew the moment it reached Trojan ears, or the gods forbid her women's, that she was messing with an Achean, her safety and the safety of the Amazons in general would be severely compromised.

Before she could melt into his blue eyes, she gathered her strength and quickly used her free legs to knock him onto his back. She followed him over, putting her dagger to his throat the minute he was down. Her heart was racing, her breath hard, but she kept her cool.

"Remember, mighty Achilles, you are a mere Achean. I am the Amazon Queen," she whispered, smirking at him. She backed off, grabbed Ajax by the waist, and heaved him onto Achilles' horse before he had even gotten off the ground.

"Never forget it."

She walked away, cursing the people on the plains and even cursing the gods once or twice. Her search for Medesicaste's lover continued, but her mind remained with Achilles, under his body, wrapped in his arms—and for that, she cursed herself, too.


End file.
